


Fading Lights

by l_cloudy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can truly love each other only after they’ve lost everything.<br/>The one with Rhaegar and Lyanna in exile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading Lights

One day, some three years into her new life, Lyanna Stark cuts her hair.

It’s the second day of the Sowing, and the city of Lys is all in red. Men tie long crimson scarves about their waists, women put carnations in their silvery hair, rose and purple and fire-orange, and there are cloths and drapes hanging from every window –from the scarlet silks for nobility and high priests, to the simple dust-stained old sheets of the lower city. Lys turns red once a year, but this is the first time she’s here to see it, and Lyanna likes the red, loves the way her world is in colors when it once used to be white all over.

Lys is bright pastels in azure and purple and gold, the deep green of the sea and the dark hues in the sky before a storm. Winterfell used to smell like burning wood and roasted meat and leather and cold and that elusive smell of cold she’ll never quite forget – but winter and snow never come to Lys, and the city smells of spices and grapes and sweat, the streets alive with the ferment of thousands of people going about their lives. Lyanna loves the freedom that comes with being one face among the crowds, and the person she is now.

To the Seven Kingdoms, Lyanna Stark has been gone since before the war, long disappeared by the time seven men fought against the three and won. In the Free Cities, there were some who knew of Zarah, mistress of the white house on the third square, the one with the high ceilings and bright cotton curtains that were sure mark of new money and foreign manners. Zarah of Pentos is of Westerosi blood and breeding, because the best lies always spawn from the truth, but she is the daughter of a deserter and not a lord, and she has only seen one side of the Narrow Sea. Her husband is a merchant of Valyrian descent from a family that’s not important enough to name, as well-traveled as Rhaegar is well-read, and together they are perfectly unremarkable and she has never imagined life could be so simple – but now, she can imagine no other.

In truth, Lyanna likes being Zarah more than she has ever liked being Lyanna Stark. Lyanna Stark would never have lasted anyway; she would have become Lyanna Baratheon eventually, or Lyanna Bolton, or even Princess Lyanna had things gone differently. She would have left Winterfell for some faraway castle, some half-content life and new duties she did not want.

Zarah of Pentos has sailed the Summer Sea and seen the forest of Qohor and learned the healing arts as well as any apprentice at the Citadel, and lines her eyes with dark khol because she can. All her acquaintances think her a very pious woman, for all the hours she has spent in the grey temple up the hill, by the statues of the Weeping Lady taking cares of the ill – but the truth is, the part of her that is still the lady of Winterfell, fifteen and selfish, takes pleasure in practicing something that would have been forbidden to Lyanna Stark in Westeros. The part of her that is a grown woman and a mother has learned how to heal to perhaps make amends; she thinks back to the destruction they’ve left behind in Westeros, and feels guilty that she can’t bring herself to regret the choices that brought her to this new life.

She is Lyanna and she is Zarah at the same time, and she doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins, or maybe it’s just that this new woman was Lyanna Stark all along, waiting to come out and live her life.

The day she realizes this is the day she cuts off fifteen inches of her long dark hair – and when it’s done she feels light as the breeze, light enough to fly away.

The city is red all over and the air smells like incense and Lyanna kisses her son on the forehead good morning, then takes her favorite dagger and slices her braid off clear at her neck. Lyanna Stark would never have cut her hair short, her only vanity, the only truly beautiful feature to set her apart among the ladies of the court. In the South, Lyanna of Winterfell was pretty at best, what with her rustic habits and slim waist and small breasts; but now she wears tightly fitted blouses and trousers and her lashes are long and black and thick, and she can do however she wants.

Later, she gets it styled in the new fashion that courtesans in Braavos have started to prefer, even more scandalously short in the back of her neck, with curls all over, and she feels different, like the years and the weight of the memories was lifted off her. Her discarded braid is thick and heavy in her hand, and Lyanna considers it, frowning. Throwing it away seems like a disrespect somehow, and she is not sentimental enough to keep it. She could burn it, maybe, but then she would have to deal with the smell and the ashes; and, well, Lyanna was never much for fire anyway.

In the end she makes her way to the harbor, and throws it as far as she can, which is really not far at all. It’s a long while before it finally sinks down, and Lyanna loses trace of how long she remains there, standing on a dock looking at the waves. The sun is high on the water, but she can still tell where the west is.

She turns away and goes home.

When Rhaegar sees her he doesn’t really say a thing, but gives her a surprised laugh that is as welcome as it’s unusual. Later on, she notices he keeps throwing glances at her through the rest of the day, and it reminds her of the way she used to catch him staring at the sea all through the first year, eyes fixed on the slow sinking of the sun. She likes this much better, light amusement instead of longing, the way he tastes of wine and promises instead of bitter regrets.

She likes, she loves, she wants.

Lyanna wakes up the next morning in a pleasant warmth and the new feeling of air on her bare neck, and she likes the change. She likes all changes, really. There’s a lean body against hers and arms around her waist and she likes that too, and it’s _so_ _good_ – it’s near bliss how perfect everything is; and Lyanna wonders how selfish she must be, that she doesn’t regret a thing.

“Good morning,” she says, slow and husky with sleep, and he takes one of her hands in both of his, kisses the tip of her fingers – and it’s a good morning, indeed.

She wakes up in the morning with a smile, and it’s worth more than any kingdom.

**Author's Note:**

> *slowly crawling out my ASOIAF hiatus*  
> So I've had this in my prompt box since forever and man it was _hard_ \-- seriously, how do people write Rhaegar and Lyanna without angst, I had to rewrite this like five times. Bottom line, this is maybe a bit all over the place, but I swear I tried.  
>  Title from [_Genesis_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXKLSX05jWw)


End file.
